watching.”
Annibel now showed concern. “How do you intend to find out?” she asked him.
“I think it’s the Americans. Pepé thinks it’s a rival cartel, that the yanquis are too inept at keeping secrets and that the American media will expose it for us anyway. But who else has the intelligence and sensors to find a damn skiff on the open and know what it is, destroying it without a trace before anyone can even radio for help.”
“Do your skiffs have radios?”
Daniel said nothing, not knowing the answer to her question. Such details were left to others. Even if they did have radios, the mules were conditioned not to highlight themselves in any way. They would die before they radioed for help.
“Better yet, just send girls to their bars. Men like to talk and boast, don’t they?” Annibel asked.
“American men. Down here, talking can kill you.”
“Yes, of course, American men,” Annibel snickered as she looked out to sea. “Well, then, you have a strategy.”
“Maybe, but I need more than that,” Daniel responded, lost in his thoughts.
Annibel got up from the sofa and moved toward him. “Then I won’t disturb you as you think about your multinational business.” She stopped in front of him and bent over to whisper in his ear, the lace neckline of her nightshirt hanging low.
“Think about business today, and think about me tonight.”
She walked away carefree and in charge. “I’ll take you up on your offer of Caracas,” she said over her shoulder. “If you call for the plane, I’ll be ready in an hour. Maybe I’ll pick up something for you.” She turned her head to leave him a coy smile as she descended the stairs.
Daniel smiled back, thankful for a moment of peace to dream about his firecracker wife before he turned his eyes out to sea — toward the Americans. He had some ideas.
(USS Coral Sea, underway, Central Carribean)
Macho entered the “dirty shirt” Wardroom with her tray of food and set it down at the unofficial Firebird table. Situated up forward under the bow catapults, the dirty shirt allowed flight deck clothing, and the olive drab flight suits of the aviators mixed with the multicolored flight deck jerseys of various maintenance and flight deck officers. The initial crush of hungry officers had, for the most part, melted away, and Macho, taking a late lunch, found herself alone at the squadron table.
Her roommate, Shane, was the talk of the ship. Stunning and knowledgeable about enemy threat systems, she was friendly, nice to everyone. Macho found this unusual in a young woman of such head-turning beauty, expecting bored-with-it-all aloofness rather than sincere interest and a willingness to pitch in. In the weeks since Shane’s arrival, Macho had watched as several airwing players rolled in on her, and Shane spurned their advances with her sweet smile and, in several cases, even gained their respect and friendship. Though no beauty queen, Macho wasn’t ugly, and was one of the few “available” female aviators aboard who were surrounded by dozens of available male aviators. The young officers — male and female — were all attractive to one another, more so as the days at sea built up one by one. If anyone tried to roll in on Macho — and some had — they were dispatched by her biting rejoinders, and the guys kept their distance.